The Best of Kansas
by nomadic725
Summary: After being brutally chopped up by a zombie chick, Sam is dragged to Kansas for a hunt.


**_Author's Note:_**

**_Why yes. I am gonna bore you all with an author's note. Every title in this story is based off the tracks in the CD "The Best of Kansas." I do not own the titles. Or the Spernatural. Or the vast array of wonderful, beautiful men in Suupernatual. *sniffle*_**

_Two weeks ago_

_Chautauqua County, Kansas_

The sky, ash grey, loomed over the farmhouse giving the entire scene the sensation of being in a black and white photograph.

She gazed out the dirt trimmed window. Widow she was, and widow she would be.

Widow she was, and widow she _must_ be.

She flung open the door that was once green, but faded into the old photograph image like the rest of the farm.

The farm wouldn't be in such disarray if she had him to help her again.

Widow she was, and widow she must be.

It wasn't as if she had a choice.

Widow she was, and widow she must be.

These thoughts pursued her as she sauntered off toward the corn field. She brushed them aside like she brushed aside the stalks of corn as she entered the field. Green obscured her vision—the only thing with color around here—until she made it to a small clearing. She took a pathway to a different clearing, then knelt in the center.

Her hand flew to her throat, then clasped around her necklace—a plain heart—and she whispered, "I love you. Please. Come to me."

Looking around, she saw that he did not come. She sighed. He didn't always come. She turned back toward the farmhouse. She had made it to the first clearing when something grabbed her shoulder. She shrieked for a fraction of a second before she realized that it was him.

"You came," she embraced him.

"Why did you scream, woman?" He demanded. "You think that I will not kill any who dare harm you? You think that I am unable to protect you as I did before?"

"I am sorry," she told the man in the tattered clothes with the small, spaced out teeth, and the scraggily hair and piercing eyes. "I love you." She hadn't let go of him the entire conversation.

He flung her off of him as though she was nothing. "You doubt me."

Hurt filled her eyes. "You are different. You are not the man I married. You confuse me."

The man's eyes widened. "I am the man you married." He pulled her to him and kissed her. She stifled a sob.

"Then why are you so different?"

"Do you love me?" he asked.

"What?"

"Do you love me?" he said, harsher this time.

"Yes, but—"

"That's all you need to know. I have to go, before they notice my absence," he kissed her forehead and disappeared into the corn.

She wanted to follow him, to beg him to stay, to go with him, but she couldn't. They were of two different species. He was gone. He had been gone for three months.

Dead.

Gone. Dead.

Widow she was, widow she must be.

* * *

><p>Sam stormed the motel room, sniveling. He had been hit in the nose pretty dang hard by that zombie—she had been a blackbelt in life—and his eyes were watering.<p>

But the blackbelt zombie wasn't the worst of it. Oh, no. Nope. Notta. Its never just a simple blackbelt zombie in a hunter's life. Of course the blackbelt zombie wasn't alone. Nope. She had a werewolf boyfriend that somehow managed knock Sam to the ground with a fishing rod.

Yeah. A fishing rod.

This did nothing for Sam's ego.

And when Sam hit the ground, he, of course, had to land in a way that half a pound of grit embedded into his eyes.

Yeah.

Sam flung himself on the motel bed, ignoring the stench of past residents haunting the sheets. He chucked his head on that pillow and slept.

* * *

><p>"Sam."<p>

Sam groaned.

"Sammy! You alive?"

"No. Go away."

"C'mon man. I just drove for twelve hours straight."

Sam grunted, but sat up. His brother jumped back in terror.

"What happened to you?" Dean asked.

"You don't want to know. Really." Sam stood up and shuffled into the bathroom. He glared at his reflection. Bloodshot eyes; ground crap embedded into his face; his nose at an insanely odd angle. He looked like Victor Frankenstein's monster.

"Anyway," Dean called from the other room. "If you're done with your case—"

"Yeah."

"—Then I have a new one for us. C'mon. I'll meet ya in the Impala."

Sam stepped out of the bathroom, picking chunks of debris out of his face. "Where we going?"

"Kansas!" Dean called, halfway out the door.

Note that they were in Maine.

"Oh," Sam said sarcastically. "Let me just grab my coat."

"Smart-ass."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

Dean's head popped behind the motel door and he was gone.

* * *

><p><strong>If nobody reviews, I'll assume that this idea is crap and not update. Pretty please make me update. I need to practice writing.<strong>


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